What He Has
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: Maleficent has one obsession; she must have everything that her mortal enemy has. Be it a throne or robes or jewelry, she desires it. But when Diaval spies King Stefan and his queen in the bedroom, who is to satisfy Maleficent's need? Our favorite raven, of course. Maleval, contains lemon. One-shot.


**A/N: So here is my newest Maleval one-shot! These two just keep making me dream things up. Beware: contains lemon. Don't like, don't read! Beware: Contains some OOCness! Or, at least, I thought Maleficent was acting a bit strangely, but perhaps you all will disagree with me. Disclaimer: Trumpet owns nothing. Do not sue the Trumpet because the Trumpet is saving money to buy a clarinet. **

* * *

There was pain biting in between his feathers, scoring down his breast as he fought against the net that bound him to the ground. The farmer yelled, "Hah! I've got you!" as though his capture was some sort of accomplishment. It mattered not to the crow. He could smell death upon him in the dogs' breath, in their drool that dripped down on them. Then his form shifted. Pain shot through him. His bones elongated. His feathers tucked back into his skin. He struggled to his new feet and flung the net off of himself. The farmer and his mutts fled, shrieking, "It's a demon!" while Diaval examined his new fingers. He flexed them experimentally. It made an odd tension go through his arm. He didn't like it.

He turned and peered down his bare back, disregarding his filth. Where were his wings? Surely no magical being would dare turn him into anything without wings, not for any purpose! A flightless life was no life at all. Where were they?

A rustling noise startled him from his desperate search for his wings, and he regarded an elfin-faced woman with wary eyes. He felt exposed before her, and he became suddenly aware of his nudity. His featherless hands reached to cover himself, but they stilled when he saw that she held his gaze in hers. Fear arose in his chest. This was no elf. This was a fairy. But wingless? He had never seen a wingless fairy before.

A flightless life was no life at all. The fear turned to panic. She had done this on purpose. She was going to trap him like this. This was a fate far worse than being bludgeoned to death by a human. He cocked an eyebrow at her and swallowed hard, determined to hide his fear of the beautiful creature before him. "What have you done to my beautiful self?" And beautiful she was, a magnificent creature with horns and high cheekbones and a surreal magical essence surrounding her. He was oddly drawn to her. He wished to step closer, but didn't dare move.

She replied to him with an eloquent tongue. There was a layer of sass in her voice. "Would you rather I let them beat you to death?"

He narrowed his obsidian eyes at her and pointedly gazed down his wingless back. "I'm not certain." If she could be sassy, so could he. Even if the human language was foreign to his lips, even if he—

"Stop complaining." Her words cut off his thoughts. She leaned closer to him, if only just a bit. "I saved your life."

This phrase was just as intentional as his pointing out his winglessness. He felt a slight prickle of emotion in his chest. There were many more shades to emotion like this. What was it? Guilt? He gulped, recognizing his chutzpa. "Forgive me."

Her next words were clearly prepared. "What do I call you?"

He realized that she had been planning on this meeting for some time now, and he had just drawn the short end of the stick as far as birds getting caught on scarecrows went. "Diaval," he snapped. His voice was louder and harsher than he meant it to be. "And…" She was most likely planning on this. He knew that, if he didn't offer his servitude, she would most likely take it anyway. "In return for saving my life, I am your servant." He bowed his head to her. The dirty bangs fell into his face. "Whatever you need."

"Wings." He looked back to her face, seeing a sorrow written there, deep in her emerald and gold eyes. "I need you to be my wings." In a flick of her hand, he was clothed, and she quickly told him everything that was necessary for him to know—spy on the castle, bring back information, do not question her motives. He didn't.

And that was how Diaval obtained his mistress. She told him little, but it didn't take much for him to piece together the sadness of her life. It didn't take a genius to note the way she longingly looked up at the sky, or the way her eyes misted over when she saw a bird in flight. The pixies and sprites of the moorlands were constantly squabbling amongst themselves about what had happened to their guardian's great and powerful wings, and what could have driven her to do a deed so terrible as to crown herself queen. Diaval paid no heed to the last bit of their arguments; there was no one better suited to be queen of the magical lands. She did no harm to her subjects. The worst adjective that could be applied to her was reclusive.

But his mistress did have one obsession. She had to have absolutely anything the king had. Diaval noticed this when he first reported the crowning of King Stefan, and later when she demanded what the king wore. He told her, of course, with mild confusion, that he wore robes of red and purple like any royal. It was less than a day later when she sported her own robes, though they were a muted brown and looked more like peasant clothes than from the wardrobe of royalty (he didn't dare tell her that, though). She even carried a staff like his, and began to wear a ring not long after her servant reported that the king wore jewelry.

But as he sailed nearer to her today, he had absolutely no idea how to express to her just exactly _what_ the king had. Mostly because what he had witnessed was not an object, but an action between the king and his wife; his whimpering, sniveling wife who kept begging him to stop while his bare body ground against hers… It made Diaval's feathers ruffle.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he was completely unprepared for her magic to morph him into this leggy creature known as man, so he promptly dropped down onto his knees before her. He swallowed hard and dusted himself off, standing up.

"Speak," she ordered.

His heart clenched. He had begun to feel one of those confusing emotions for her recently, and he wasn't sure he liked it, but he was certain that she wouldn't. He felt it might have something to do with what he had witnessed between the king and the queen. But he didn't wish to speak of that to her unless she demanded it. "Business as usual in the kingdom, mistress. All is peaceful."

She always knew when he was trying to cover something up or hide from her. It was a unique innate ability that made him squirm any time he decided to bend the truth a little, and it usually resulted in a punishment for him, though her punishments were never painful or too hard to accomplish. Generally, they were just extra busy work, and he didn't mind busy work. "Tell the truth, Diaval."

He, of course, began to squirm. "That is the truth, mistress. I just…saw something I shouldn't have seen, is all, and I find repeating it would be painful to your ears."

A slight smirk curled onto her lips. "Now you've perked my curiosity." The words rolled fluidly from her tongue. "Speak, Diaval. I am sure it is not as bad as you have perceived it to be."

"Very well, mistress." He bowed his head a bit. "I flew to the wrong window, and I caught sight of the king and queen taking part in some very peculiar behavior in their room while nude." His face promptly shifted to a shade of crimson. "The queen was averse to his advances, but she eventually caved to his will, and—"

"That is quite enough." Her face was blank as usual, but her eyes were cringing a bit. "I do not need all of the gory details." For once, she wished she had trusted Diaval's instinct as far as what to tell and not tell. That particular subject could have been avoided. A tiny voice in the back of her head whispered to her, _It could have been you. You would not have been averse to his advances. You would have __**loved**__—_

She promptly told the voice to shut up and turned back to her servant, who was looking increasingly befuddled until he finally burst out dramatically, "But what were they _doing_, mistress? I don't understand!"

She sighed and sat down with her back to a tree trunk. Her hand patted the mossy ground beside her almost of its own accord, inviting him to sit next to her. He did so, careful to keep a distance between them (he had never quite recovered from that night she'd awoken from a nightmare and he'd dared to touch her in an attempt to give her comfort). His eyes scanned her face, as though he thought it alone could provide him answers. He was getting a soft feeling in his chest that he often got when he looked at her for long periods of time.

She bit the inside of her cheek for a moment and debated why she wasn't just sending him away. She owed him no answers, especially not to a question such as this. But he had asked, and she would provide. "They were mating, Diaval." The explanation was much deeper than that, but she was unsure how to continue, especially with this new brooding feeling in her heart. "It often happens when a man and a woman have wed and wish to produce children, though some do it before marriage due to financial situations or…" She drifted off and felt her face warm. "…other reasons."

He pursed his lips. He didn't miss her slight blush, but he chose not to call her out on it. "Birds only mate when both parties are consenting, mistress. Why are men different?"

She was starting to feel itchy. This conversation was making her uncomfortable, and she licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. "I suspect that the queen had no choice in the matter of to whom she would be married, or even if she would be married. That does not take away from the fact that their people would desire a royal child, an heir." A sense of loneliness overcame her, and she found herself unable to look upon him. "Have I answered your question?"

He still appeared quite flummoxed by the whole mess, but he nodded. "Yes, mistress."

She couldn't look straight at him. "You may go now, Diaval." She was about to flick her fingers at him, to return him to his natural state, but he stopped her.

"Mistress, wait!" She blinked at him inquiringly. "I, um. May I stay like this for a while, mistress? It helps me think more clearly." He stared at her a bit nervously, as though expecting her to deny him the privilege (or curse?) of clear thought.

"Very well, Diaval." Her hand stilled itself in her lap. She looked up at the sky, which was darkening into night, and gave a wistful sigh. Stefan had one thing that she would never again have, and that thing was love. Even if he wasn't loved by his wife, he had one. He had a whole kingdom. He was _happy_. She supposed begrudgingly that made two things. These thoughts made her glance to the man beside her, who was, as he said, apparently doing some deep thinking. She hated to interrupt him. But then again, she didn't. "Do you know love?"

He jolted a bit at her voice. He swallowed hard, combing his hands through his hair. "I beg your pardon, mistress?" His obsidian eyes were clogged with confusion, and it appeared he thought he had misheard.

"You heard me."

He frowned. "I…Well, I suppose I do, mistress. But love has many meanings. I love my mother and my siblings, even though I haven't seen them in a while." His heart thrummed alive in his chest, too loud for him to cope. "But the human notion of romantic love is baffling to me." Though the matter of it seemed, every time he looked at his mistress, to grow a bit clearer. But he didn't dare say that to her. Regardless of the fact that he did, indeed, love her in the only way he understood love to be, he knew that she would never accept that, and especially not from him, her lowly crow servant.

"You knew your family, then." She confirmed it quietly. Leave it to a simple animal to know more about family and its love than she.

"My mother and brothers, yes. I never met my father. I presume he died, as ravens mate for life, but mother never spoke of him and I never asked." He realized that he was babbling and slammed his jaw shut. "Sorry, mistress." He knew how she despised incessant talking. Absentmindedly, his teeth began to graze over his lower lip as they tended to do when he was worried or at all nervous.

She narrowed her eyes. She didn't mind listening to him when he had something to say of importance. Was this important? Not particularly, but it helped chase away those brooding feelings of loneliness in her weathered heart. "It's fine. Please continue."

He did not continue, but instead asked, "Mistress, do you feel alright?"

"Yes, I am fine."

"You are behaving quite unlike yourself." He moved his hand into his lap as hers neared it. She didn't like being touched, he knew, even if he longed for contact between their skins, and even if it appeared that her hand might be reaching for his. His teeth grazed his lip again.

She retracted her hand. She was being ridiculous. Diaval served her out of owing a life debt, not out of affection for her. She could not help but wish that was so, but it was not. She struggled to push those notions away and came across another uncomfortable subject. "I take it you have heard my story."

"Through gossip and inductive reasoning, yes, mistress." His heart was aflutter in his chest. She had never before made a move to speak to him of such matters, and he had never dared to question her; that was one of the main three rules, which were spy on the castle, bring back information, do _not_ question her motives.

"Hm." She looked away. "There is…no sense of fulfillment to be achieved on the ground. No matter what I do, or how much I know, I am helpless." Her fists clenched into the grass. Raw emotion was in her eyes, in the power of her jawline, in her tight voice, and it was threatening to be released. "I try to make myself his equivalent, but_ things_ mean nothing in the moors. They see me as petty." She gave a cruel laugh. "I see myself as petty."

He frowned. "I do not see you as petty, mistress. Anything but."

She seemed to be taking control of herself again. Bitterness was rigid in her voice, in her posture, written across her face, but it was not running away with her as it had moments before. "Then how do you see me, Diaval, if not as some heartless witch that enslaved you for her own foolish desires?"

He was silent for a moment before meekly asking, "Am I meant to answer that, mistress, or was it a rhetorical point?"

"You may answer it if you have an answer for it. I thought it quite answered itself."

He bit his lip a moment longer before agreeing, "Okay." He took about a minute to collect his thoughts then continued, "I do not consider myself your slave, but rather your willing servant. I volunteered to be at your side not just because you saved my life, but because I am drawn to you like a moth to a candle. And I most certainly do not consider your desires foolish or I would not waste my time fulfilling them. You have not magically bound me to you. I could leave at any time if I wished, but I choose to stay, because you have given my life a purpose it didn't possess before." The silence trembled with tension between them. "And that is how I see you, mistress." He didn't dare add on the parts he wished to—that she was also his closest friend, and that he could now never mate because his mind had imprinted itself upon her, and that he perhaps understood love far more than either of them gave him credit for.

"Diaval…" she breathed. Her head was tilted back to look at the dark sky, and the starlight showed the slight mist in her eyes that always appeared when she looked upward. Then her heart went stone cold. "I cannot…" She shook her head. "This was a ridiculous notion to entertain." He was very confused. "I cannot have what Stefan has, because in order to be loved one must be able to love, and I am unable to do just that."

Her servant dared to take her hand right out of her lap, but before she could slap his touch away and scold him, he pressed it to his lips. "I will do my best to provide whatever you desire. If that is love, I will give it to the best of my ability, mistress." He laid her hand back on her thigh, but his troubled black eyes peered at her earnestly.

She always felt that she could fall into the depths of his tunneling black eyes, land in the warm safety of their abyss and forget everything that she had lost. Could she really have the opportunity to do that, now? "What does a bird know about love?" Of course she couldn't. It was a ridiculous notion to entertain.

"I know when a boy likes a girl he picks her flowers and kisses her cheek. And when two people are married, they wear these particular rings to prove it. And…" He nibbled the inside of his cheek. There wasn't much he knew about love. "Alright, mistress, that's pretty much all I know." His face sagged a little. "I'm sorry if it isn't enough, mistress. But I would be glad to pick you some flowers, if you would allow me."

It was her heart's turn to go aflutter in her chest. She was broken. She couldn't be fixed. But her loyal servant was before her, offering her everything that Stefan had. Her robes meant nothing; her ring was useless; her crown but a trinket. But she could have love. "Alright," she conceded softly. She leaned nearer to him, and her lips sought his out.

He drew back, as though momentarily confused, but followed his human instincts and let his lips touch hers. His hand tentatively reached for hers, and she accepted. Then he broke the kiss, not wanting it to last too long, and really, there was a gross factor to exchanging saliva with anyone. Even his beautiful mistress, whose alabaster skin glowed silver in the moonlight. "Mistress?" he questioned softly.

They leaned close together again, lips caught in one another once more. Then her hands latched themselves around his neck. He was stiff, terrified, but driven by a feeling that was oh so good. She massaged his taut shoulders with her hands while she kissed him passionately. The tension in them leaked away. He obediently opened his mouth to her prodding tongue. "Mm…" She was surprised at the way he tasted—like blackberries, sweet and slightly tart.

Then her hands were all over him. She couldn't decide where to touch him, which part she liked best. He was clearly satisfied with struggling to reciprocate her kiss; his hands were comfortably resting about her waist. But her hands scoured all across him, leaving a trail of fire wherever they touched. He shivered beneath her touch when she stroked up and down his sides, and soon she was reaching up beneath his shirt to stroke bare flesh. He was warm, but she was warmer.

Not one to be outdone, Diaval carefully unhooked his hands from about her hips and experimentally ghosted up and down her; if the situation were different, she would have sworn he was trying to tickle her. Gaining some confidence, his touches became a bit firmer, but they were still tentative. His eyes flickered to hers every time he touched something new to assure himself that she was okay, and she liked that very much. Almost as much, in fact, as the ass she was preparing herself to grope when his mouth left hers. She paused, eyes flicking up to him, but he took a deep breath and began to kiss down her jaw. Satisfied that he was fine, she proceeded to squeeze his buttocks. He nipped her neck sharply in response.

Their making out continued for several more long minutes until her hands stopped stroking his sides and instead rested there. She let his strong arms envelope her and sagged against his chest, exhausted for no reason except emotional overload. He hugged her tightly for a few minutes. His labored breath gradually lightened to its normal state. "Mistress?" he whispered. "Are you—is this-alright?"

She nodded into him. He seemed to relax a little more and adjusted her position, presumably to make himself more comfortable. He was content to sleep on the ground as a man to be with her. Or was he? "Wouldn't you rather sleep in a tree?"

His arms tensed around her slightly. "I would rather sleep where I am desired. If that is here, with you, mistress, I am happy."

He smelled so good. "Thank you," she breathed into his chest. She wasn't sure if he heard her or not. It felt so good to be held close to his chest. She could hear his heartbeat. She could smell the blackberries and a faint scent of smoke upon him. Memories of the last time she'd been held were far from her mind, chased away by his touch until she slipped into a deep sleep.

* * *

Awakening was a bit startling for both Maleficent and Diaval; the former struggled to piece together exactly why she was lying in her servant's arms, while Diaval tried and failed to fly away as he opened his eyes. They both ended up rubbing their heads and mumbling, "What the hell…"

After memories had been thoroughly examined by both of them, Maleficent sent Diaval off to spy on the castle as usual while she headed to the pool to bathe. She peeled away each layer of clothing and sank into the water with each of them. She wrung out the thick, heavy robe that she had grown accustomed to wearing and transfigured it back into its original state of a gown. Her cloak, though, she thought she would keep; she rather liked it. Then, letting her cleaned clothes dry on a rock, she took a bar of goat soap that Diaval had snatched at her request several weeks prior and began to scrub herself down. The soap left a pleasant scent clinging to her skin. Her heart grew its own set of wings at the thought of Diaval noticing it, and she scolded herself for being a silly girl.

She sat down on a rock that was submerged in the water and relaxed physically, but her mind was turning. Was Diaval doing this because he wanted to? Did he genuinely like her in that way? Did he even understand what he was doing? The crow—_raven,_ she mentally berated herself—had ensnared her heart, and he seemed apt to return her feelings, but did he mean them? Or was he just trying to please the whimsy of her heart? And, the worst question of all: If he wasn't serious in his advances toward her, did she even care? Or was Diaval just a set of arms to her?

The questions continued to launch themselves at her, and she couldn't answer many of them, nor could she find comfort in the answers that she did have. She leaned her head back to gaze at the sky. The sun was setting. She narrowed her eyes. How much time had she spent in the pool, exactly? She couldn't have really wasted the whole day, could've she? And where was Diaval?

She climbed out of the pool and put on her undergarments, but waited for her body to dry before putting on her gown. Her eyes scanned the sky for Diaval, who finally made his appearance by flying lopsided toward her. There were two scarlet roses clutched in his claws, but it was clear one of his wings was hurt. He dived out of the air toward her. The roses fell into her lap. He landed beside her awkwardly, holding his left wing out from his side.

She transformed him and examined three long, deep gashes that ran from the top of his shoulder down to his wrist. "Who did this?" she demanded harshly. Magic leaked from her fingers and began to repair his torn muscle and flesh.

She couldn't tell if he cringed from the pain or from her voice. "It was just a cat. I couldn't smell it for the flowers. But I think I hurt it more than it hurt me." Her lips pursed in concentration. His wounds and their severity transferred forms along with him, and the muscle she could see was badly ripped.

"You are never to risk your life for such a trivial thing again," she hissed with venom in her voice.

"Yes, mistress," he agreed, bowing his head. The three long lines closed, but were swollen and red.

"You aren't to fly anywhere for the next three days. Understand me?"

"Yes, mistress." He tentatively flexed his hand, and he winced from the pain. "The flowers, mistress?" He looked at her hopefully. His black eyes gleamed like gems, and fondness pricked her heart.

She picked them up, careful to avoid their thorns. "They are very nice." She smelled them. "Lovely. Not worth you getting hurt, but lovely nonetheless." She turned to him and let her lips lift upward a bit. He brushed his lips against her cheek for just an instant. His cheeks darkened as he did so, and he wondered for a moment if his actions were too brash before she took his hand. "This was sweet of you, Diaval." She reached for her gown and tugged it on, embarrassed that she was still in her undergarments.

They walked back to _their_ nest (both grew a bit excited at the thought of_ their_ nest and not _his_ nest or _her_ nest) and sat down together. "How was your day, mistress?" Diaval asked cheerily. For a moment she thought this behavior was out of character for him, but then decided that she and her gloom had probably been suppressing his cheer.

She gave the slightest of smiles. "It was excellent." A little white lie never hurt anyone, least of all Diaval. "Tell me what you saw at the castle." She tried to make her phrases longer than usual. He was more important than just a servant now; now he was her friend and something a bit more, though she wasn't apt to stick a label on their relationship just yet. Regardless, he needed to know that he mattered to her.

He shrugged. "A bunch of old warmongers that call themselves dignitaries talked to a young warmonger that calls himself a king. The usual—should we fight the east, we could plunder the west for resources, the north's army is too big but an alliance might work. The most interesting thing I saw was the beheading of an adulterer. Unless something exciting is happening, the castle is a quite boring place, mistress. I fail to see why anyone would willingly live there. The queen _despises_ it." He decided he was babbling and stopped, muttering an apology under his breath.

Maleficent ignored his apology. "The queen is unhappy?"

"She cries to her maid almost every day, mistress. She greatly misses her father, and hates that she was wed to a stranger who stole all her power." He frowned. "I feel pity for her, mistress. Is that bad?"

She was quiet for a long moment. "I don't think so. I don't believe she is our enemy." He took her wings. He took his wife's power and, according to Diaval, violated her in the worst of ways. It was clear that the man Maleficent once knew was letting his power get to his head, and there was little if anything remaining of the one she called friend. Driven by greed and ambition, he had tortured those that were meant to be nearest to him. And he still had more than she. He was still more loved than she, more appreciated than she, more respected than she. It made her heart light in anger anew, and her hand clenched around Diaval's into a white-knuckled fist.

"Mistress?" She was hurting him. She released him. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine."

"Okay." He sat cross-legged with his back to the base of the tree next to her. Once his hand was released, he retracted it into his lap alongside its opposite. She didn't miss his massaging it gently, and a bit of guilt pricked at her conscience. He blinked at her with his onyx gemstones, his brow fuddled.

"Diaval, it is quite obvious when you are confused about something. Do you have a question for me to answer?"

He shook his head, and the blush that colored his cheeks incited her curiosity. "It is nothing of importance, mistress." He cleared his throat. "If it is alright with you, my queen, may I return to my own nest tonight?"

His thought had clearly been much deeper than she suspected, but it was not her place to question the depths of his mind when it did not directly affect her in any way, so she flicked her wrist at him. He was in the air for only a moment before pain slashed through his torn muscles and, with a frustrated squawk, he landed again. She sighed and changed him again, and then she probed at his arm. He winced at her touch, but didn't verbally complain, not even when she ran her dainty finger down the red scar.

"On second thought," he mumbled. Her touch was making him feel funny inside, and he could feel an odd heat rushing down between his legs. He remembered seeing the king and queen the day before. A gnawing sensation in his gut told him that this body wanted something like that from his mistress. But he would never hurt his queen, not the way Stefan had violated Leila. His desires were nothing like that. Still, he shifted away from her and diverted his eyes from where they longed to wander—straight to her bosom they were strangely drawn.

She touched his arm and kissed his cheek. It made the feeling stronger. "Diaval, you're making odd faces."

"Am I?" His voice was tight, almost squeaky.

She pulled herself into his lap with her eyes narrowed. "Speak. Tell me what's wrong, you silly bird, and all your worries that you are thinking too loudly to ignore." She leaned forward and kissed his lips. He was beginning to harden and grow. He feared soon she would be able to feel him. "Darling?"

Since the hell when did she use that word? And why the hell did it turn him on so damned much? He could only manage a squeaky noise at the back of his throat before she felt him with her hand in a very deliberate stroking motion. "Would it perhaps be something I could help with?" Again came the stroking motion, and he bit back a loud groan.

She kissed him, and they became passionate as they had the night before, except that their clothes were discarded very quickly. She trailed fire down his neck and chest with her tongue while he explored her tentatively in ways that he hadn't earlier. He touched her rump and gave it a slight squeeze. Then he grazed his nails over it, and she sighed into his shoulder, going limp at his touch. He moved his hand in between their nude bodies and touched her between the legs. She melted into him while he touched her.

He ran his finger up and down the line where her lips split. She shuddered. He supposed that was a good sign and let his finger part her lips ever so slightly, just enough to brush a tiny pearl nestled in her center. She went stiff. He murmured, "Mistress?" Was stiff good? Was this what he was supposed to do?

"Do that again," she whispered.

"Alright."

She slithered out of his arms and lay back on the moss of their nest while he kissed down to her patch of dark chestnut curls and began to explore her not only by touch, but by taste. Her thigh muscles tightened in pleasure. His finger slid into her slit and explored within her. It was warm and very wet. He could taste her wetness. Soon, her hips were bucking up to meet him while he suckled on her pearl and touched her delicate insides. Then all of her muscles clenched, and she gave a choked cry of pleasure.

Diaval kissed the insides of her thighs while she took a few labored breaths. He raised his eyes to her. "Mistress?"

In a moment, she launched herself at him, her mind addled by hormones and ecstasy that was still fresh. He was completely overwhelmed. She was going twice her normal speed. Her mind and body were on overdrive. He was struggling to keep up. His catch-up time was stolen when she took him into her mouth and sucked on him. He gave a guttural moan. Her tongue swirled around him and licked up and down his shaft.

But this wasn't how it was going to end. He wanted to see her unravel again. So in one smooth movement, he rolled them over. Her eyes widened a bit as they met his. Was he really going to do this? Was he really to follow his body's urges? Only if she wanted it. "Mistress?"

"Go ahead." She sounded afraid, raw with emotion, but determined.

He was determined, as well. He would never hurt her the way the king hurt his wife. He carefully slid into her as slow as he could. Her muscles hugged him in a way nothing ever had before, and he sighed into her neck. He gradually picked up speed when she didn't cry out in pain or demand for him to stop. Her legs wrapped around his waist and pushed him further into her while she gave quiet cries of bliss.

There was something grand building in this foreign body of his, and he wanted it so badly. It seemed to be all he desired. "Mistress, I—I!" He couldn't finish the sentence. Her hot breaths fanned out over his neck. She was too breathless to respond, but she hugged him tighter to her, so he took that as affirmation that this thing was very good. She gave a scream-like noise and squeezed around him. He came into her and bit into her neck to restrain the cry that threatened to burst from his lips. He held her tightly, like a shooting star, and heaved breaths into her hair.

He was the first to speak. "_Wow._" He was suddenly glad he had been unable to fly away from her when this desire bounded through his heart.

She gave a sound of, "Mmm…" and buried herself into his arms. This was better than any girlhood night romance of pursuing Stefan in the depth of the moors. This was real. This was Diaval. This was—dare she say it?—love. Yes, she had love. She had everything her enemy possessed with this handsome creature holding her.

"Mistress?" He was so concerned for her. "Mistress, are you alright?"

"Perfect," she breathed into his neck. "I'm absolutely…perfect." She brought his swollen lips to hers. "This is amazing." She ran her hand over his shoulders. "Absolutely amazing."

He gave a quirky smile. "Is it a bad thing to say that I love you?"

She kissed him once again. Emotions warred within her. Anger, betrayal, hate, cruelty. Trust, affection, devotion, utter adoration. "No. It's not a bad thing at all. As long as you mean it."

He was quiet for a moment before inhaling into her hair. "You smell good." He let out a long breath. "I love you, Maleficent." It was the first time he had ever dared use her given name. She rather liked it.

"I love you, Diaval."

* * *

**A/N: Like any other one-shot I write, I have a strong desire to continue this one, but I think this one is most likely going to remain just as is. Short stories are good every once in awhile, too, I've found. :) Reviews are appreciated, but not necessary!**

**PS: If you drop a review with a prompt, I might decide to write on it. ;-) No promises. **

**Over and out, **

**The Silver Trumpet**


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